


Turn of the Tide

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, empath!John, experiments in empathy, psychic by proxy Sherlock, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock must stand together against Sebastian Moran, who is out there. Somewhere. Being a crazy person.</p><p>And you thought Moriarty was bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Um, yeah. This part has been written for a while. This is, like, the amuse bouche of porn, before the rest of this thing happens. There's two more parts/chapters to this particular story, one of which is written, and I have the first part of the next one in mind. Beyond that, I don't even know. Well, that's not true. I know some of it, just not all of it!
> 
> This is the start of the third series in the empath 'verse. I don't have a title for the whole thing yet, but I'm thinking "An Experiment in Solidarity".
> 
> I'm really hoping that posting this will get my writing juices flowing again. I've looked at it so many times at this point, i don't even know if it's in complete sentences, let alone that it's hot or well-written, or anything. So, here's hoping.

John comes with Sherlock's fingers curled inside him, his incredible lips wrapped around John's cock, eyes fixed on John from his position between John's legs. John's fingers are twined in his hair, holding on, holding onto reality. Somewhere between the first pulse of his orgasm and the last, between the mental orgasm and the physical, John completely loses track of where he ends, and Sherlock begins.

When he opens his eyes again, it seems as though his fingers are still in Sherlock's hair; or Sherlock's fingers are in his hair. Maybe both. He sees Sherlock down the line of his naked body, he sees himself through Sherlock’s eyes, looking up at him. He knows he's John, but he feels like JohnSherlock, SherlockJohn, both of them at once, two brains, two bodies, one shared mind, connected, entwined tight, minds coiled and twisted together like the strands of a rope. It has the brightness and sharpness of Sherlock’s mind, all the things that make it beautiful to John, and he revels in that, _they_ revel in that. He can feel the Sherlock part of them wallowing in it, in the way John loves his mind, and John sees himself the way Sherlock does, in glimpses and emotions, in the way he’s always so full of feeling, brimming with it, warm and comfortable with it, the ultimate cozy, comfortable place. As one, they revel in each other, in the things that make them beautiful to each other. It goes on for minutes, for hours, for days, in the blink of an eye. Everything is love, and an all-encompassing sense of welcome, and awe. Awe for Sherlock, awe for John, their shared surprise and elation to be here, together, sharing mind and bodies with each other.

"Sherlock-" he manages. One of them manages; he’s not sure whose voice he’s using.

Sherlock lifts his head from John's hip. He knows what John is asking, because he doesn't have any better grasp on which of them he is than John does. They’re too close right now, and neither of them is willing to let it go.

"I want your mouth," Sherlock gasps, against the skin beneath his lips, in between pressing sucking, gasping kisses into John’s hip.

John moans, tugs at him, doesn't bother trying to sort out who's who just now, because only one of them has come and they need to fix that. John needs to feel that again, they both need that burst of pleasure, sharp down the spine, nearly blinding in its intensity. Sherlock crawls up the bed, graceful even in his incoordination, kneels straddling John, and John grasps at him, greedy hands, grasping, fingers tight around his hips, hoping he leaves bruises, moaning as Sherlock's fingers slide gratefully into his hair at the same time his cock slides into his mouth. He pushes with his mind as he sucks Sherlock down, taking him as deep as he can and deeper, until he can’t breathe around him, and they both moan, broken desperate sounds of pleasure shared and multiplied.

He comes again, pulsing down his throat, fingers grasping tight at his hips, pulling him in deeper, moaning, moaning, fingers in his hair, his name echoing in the room.

\----

Afterwards, when they’re starting to sort back into their own bodies, when the way their minds are braided together starts to loosen, just a little, when John is starting to see the edges of himself again, the edges of Sherlock, where they overlap, they manage to sort themselves out so they’re not in a puddle on the bed, in a pile. They manage to arrange themselves one next to the other and kiss the taste of each other off their lips. They manage to wrap each other up in the duvet and murmur in each other's ear, against the skin of a shoulder, against soft, kiss-swollen lips. They manage to doze off wrapped up in each other, neither capable of letting the divide between John and Sherlock widen, not yet, and for the moment, neither caring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go downhill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there's definitely a trigger warning on this chapter. Please feel free to skip it if it wouldn't be good for you to read it. Skip ahead to the end for the complete warning, as it's spoilery.
> 
> This also really shifts the tone of this story, which is one of the reasons I've been having trouble with it, and one of the reasons that I've been putting off posting it. Because I am hoping that the third chapter will help to even things out a little bit (though, alas, the tone of this isn't ever going to be all sweetness and brain!sex like the first chapter was), but I've been having a difficult time getting a good grasp on it. I think because it's going to end up being a combination of what I wanted to be the end of this, and what I had planned to be the beginning of hte next part. They seem to want to smoosh together.
> 
> Anyway. Hopefully I'll be able to get more written of this soon. Because I'd really like to move on.

John has told him on more than one occasion that he finds Sherlock’s presence to be a distraction, when Sherlock is engrossed in the pursuit of science. Which is fair, as Sherlock also finds John distracting when he’s trying to concentrate on an experiment. (Unless the experiment involves John somehow, which they often do.) (At least, he calls them experiments.) So he’s not surprised when he wraps up his work at Barts that afternoon and finds John’s presence in his head diminished.

At first, he shrugs it off, as he’s shrugging on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. He knows that it distracts John, so it makes sense, for John to feel further away in his head than usual, and he takes a moment to concentrate on sending a little zing along their connection, just to let John know that he’s finished up and heading home. He doesn’t feel any response from John, which is unusual in itself, and there’s something about the distance that doesn’t feel quite right. Some quality to it that isn’t normal. He can’t pinpoint what it is that’s different, but it’s there. It doesn’t feel like the distance is forced, however, like someone has done this to John, so he decides it’s not time for panic just yet.

Sherlock does decide to head straight home instead of detouring to Scotland Yard to attempt to extort some cold cases from Lestrade. He’d like _something_ to do this weekend, instead of sitting around doing nothing. 

Or spending it in bed with John.

On second thought, he thinks perhaps that’s a better option than spending it poring over cold cases. Cold cases can wait, especially with this strangeness around that which is John in his head. This cannot wait. Should not.

As his cab draws nearer Baker Street, the feeling starts to coalesce, take shape in his mind. It feels as though John has curled up in his head, in its furthest recesses, where he’ll hardly be noticed by Sherlock, especially when he’s already distracted by scientific enquiry. It feels like John is trying to make himself small, make himself a tiny, unnoticeable ball.

It makes Sherlock worry. Why would John feel this way? What happened in the several hours Sherlock has been away from Baker Street that have done this to John? And more importantly, why would he feel like this and not tell Sherlock about it? A probe along their link is enough to reassure Sherlock that at least John isn’t hurt, not physically, and that is immense relief in itself.

But there’s something there.

Something isn’t right. And Sherlock grows ever more impatient as he gets closer to home, impatient to see John, to visually confirm that he’s all right. Impatient to find out what’s going on, what’s wrong with John to make him try to keep Sherlock from feeling the brunt of this.

\----

The house is quiet when Sherlock walks through the front door. Mrs Hudson is, if he recalls, out to lunch with Mrs Turner next door, probably so they can both brag (and gossip) about their “married ones”, as they both like to do endlessly. He can hear water running upstairs though. That’s probably a good sign. Probably. Perhaps.

He can feel John more clearly in his head now, in such close proximity, but Sherlock wants to be even closer. He wants to wrap himself around John, skin to skin, so he can feel everything going on in John’s head with the sharpness and clarity with which he feels his own emotions. He wants to parse everything John is feeling and figure out how and why and if there’s anything he can do to alleviate or ameliorate the sense of shame and disgust that he’s starting to sense.

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into their flat at nearly a full run, stopping short just inside and listening.

The shower is running, and there’s now more than a little pain in his head as well. Not mental pain, but physical. Is John hurt?

It doesn’t feel like pain from an injury, though. It’s very nearly the good kind of pain.

The way John feels is still worrisome, though.

Sherlock sheds his coat and walks slowly down the hall toward the bathroom, listening to the sound of water, listening for any sounds of distress from John, concentrated on the way John feels in his head.

“John?” he asks, just outside the door to the bathroom.

There’s no answer.

Sherlock frowns, continues into their room and stands at the door there, listening. John is clearly in the shower, but Sherlock doesn’t hear any of the usual sounds of John showering, not the low-toned singing he sometimes does (always vaguely off-key, mostly just to annoy Sherlock), not the sounds of a body being washed, not even the less-often heard sounds of masturbation.

“John, are you all right?” 

The only reply from John is a faint grunt that Sherlock is entirely unable to interpret. He lacks the required data, the sound of John’s voice unmuffled by water, the expression on his face, the furrow of his brow.

The door isn’t locked, and when he steps into the bathroom the air is thick with steam, hot and humid. The only thing he can hear is the sound of the shower. John’s clothing is in a heap on the floor next to the bathtub, further evidence of his discordant emotional and mental state. John never leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor, unlike Sherlock. Usually, he leaves them folded neatly on the bed, or folded neatly in the clothes hamper. He is forever going on at Sherlock about picking up his clothing, usually as John is picking it up himself.

“John, talk to me, please,” he says quietly. Everything in his head is jumbled, a mess of half-formed images and roiling emotions. He can’t sort it out, and he knows it must be so much worse for John. All he can do right now is be present, try to draw John out and comfort him.

First thing he needs to do, though, is get John out of the shower.

Sherlock peeks into the shower with a quick twitch of the curtain, and all he sees is John’s hunched form, standing under the spray, his head bowed, his skin red and angry.

“John, you’re scalding yourself. Please, come out.” Sherlock turns as he speaks and grabs John’s towel from the back of the door, clutches it in his hands. “I have your towel. Please.”

He doesn’t sound like himself, and he hates that. Only John can color his words with such worry, such uncertainty.

After a few more moments, the water shuts off, and John draws back the shower curtain slowly, not looking at Sherlock, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. Sherlock holds out his arms, the towel, and John steps into his embrace slowly, moving as though every step is painful. 

Sherlock wraps the towel awkwardly around John’s body, and John leans into him, dripping on his shirt. Sherlock doesn’t care, not right now. 

John leans, and leans, and leans, and Sherlock lets him, wraps his arms and the towel around John’s body, trying to radiate comfort and calm, trying to ignore the way John is trembling and entirely silent. Even his emotions seem exceptionally, strangely, worryingly quiet this close. As though he’s not even allowing himself to feel. 

Sherlock holds him for long minutes, in the slowly dissipating steam in the bathroom, before he eventually starts to dry John off with the towel, gently, gently, careful of his skin, angry and reddened by the too-hot shower. He doesn’t speak to John, not right now, only concentrates on being gentle, on comfort and love and all the wonderful things that represent John to him, knowing that such warmth and wonder go both ways, knowing that the softer emotions should be comforting right now.

John lets himself be dried, lets himself be wrapped in Sherlock’s own dressing gown, lets himself be led from the bathroom and bundled into bed. His only action through all of this is to reach out and pull the covers over his head, when Sherlock tucks him in only up to his chest. 

Sherlock stands next to the bed for a full minute, staring down at John’s covered form, the lump of him curled up tight in the bed. He still doesn’t know what’s going on, and he hates it. It takes him a moment to dissipate that, because it won’t help the situation. He only has glimpses of what’s going on in John’s mind right now. It’s not that John isn’t letting him in, thankfully, it’s that John seems to be at a point of numbness, so neither of them can feel how John feels. Which isn’t helpful. 

He needs to think. He needs to _see_ , to observe. This is John. Sherlock had deduced everything about John there was to deduce (except the empathy, anyway) within moments of their first meeting. He should be able to deduce what’s going on now from the tilt of John’s chin and the temperature of his bath.

“Can I join you?” Sherlock asks, eventually. He doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t see John clearly, not like this.

There’s a pause, and then movement under the covers. He’s pretty sure that John is nodding, so Sherlock moves around the bed to his side and sits to take off his shoes. He sheds shoes and then, knowing how much comfort he finds in John’s skin, his shirt and trousers as well. The socks he leaves on; it’s a bit chilly in their room. He pulls the covers back enough to get under, and then pulls them over his head as well, turning towards John, blinking at him in the dim light under the covers.

Sherlock reaches across the expanse between them--mere inches that feel like a chasm right now--and puts his hand on John’s forearm.

John uncurls enough to shift and wrap himself around Sherlock, and Sherlock welcomes him in, hugging John close and turning his head to nuzzle a little against John’s hair. John turns his face into Sherlock’s neck and just breathes. 

This doesn’t help Sherlock’s inability to get a read on John right now. But it does make him feel better, reassured that John isn’t turning away from him.

For a long time, neither of them speaks. Sherlock doesn’t want to push this, not right now. John has been working hard on speaking more, and he’ll speak when he’s ready. For now, Sherlock is okay with holding on to John, with being present and comforting to John, with doing a surreptitious survey of the parts of John that he can feel to make sure there’s no damage beneath his skin. He enjoys the mingled smell of warm silk, himself and John that mix together with John in his dressing gown, and he enjoys the feeling of John pressed tight against him, both of them nearly naked. 

\----

It comes out in fits and starts, in broken phrases breathed against his neck and in images and emotions. It makes itself obvious to him in the twitch of John’s fingers against the skin of his back and the hitch of his breath each time he tries to force another sentence past his lips.

And it’s terrifying.

Not the event itself, though that is by no means even a little bit good. It’s what this means that makes Sherlock’s blood run cold. What it represents.

Gradually, slowly, Sherlock puts a picture together in his mind. John had decided to come drag him away from the lab. He’d fancied Angelo’s for dinner, and he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t have eaten anything since that morning. 

On his way to Sherlock’s usual lab, he’d ducked in to say hello to Mike Stamford. And that’s where things went downhill.

One moment he’d been saying hello, the next he’d been pushed against a wall with _someone_ pressed against him. Someone using Mike Stamford like a puppet. As come-ons go, it had been aggressive, bordering on violent, on brutal, and it had taken only one glance in Mike’s eyes, one brief brush against his mind, to establish exactly who it was who was using Mike that way.

Not that it wasn’t particularly obvious by the way Mike hissed, “Did you miss me, Johnny boy?” against the skin of John’s neck.

John didn’t want to get violent to extricate himself from Mike’s dubiously amorous embrace, so he did his best to talk him down, every last word of it falling on deaf ears. Eventually, he’d given in and used his empathy to slap Mike back, to sever the connection that Moran had established and was abusing.

Two minutes later, Mike was blinking at John and asking how he was, as though the previous ten minutes hadn’t happened at all, and John had just walked into his office.

John had stuttered a reply, and fled. Fled straight home, where Sherlock eventually found him.

\----

For a long time, neither of them speak. They stay quiet under the blankets, in the dim space between them, holding on to each other. Sherlock takes care to wrap John in not just his arms, but also every comforting emotion he can summon from his mind. He thinks of all the times John has laid a blanket of comfort and love over him, and he does the same for John. After a while, John seems to rouse enough to pull Sherlock closer, squeezing him tightly for a moment in thanks. 

John is still carefully blank, avoiding thinking about what happened or its implications. Neither of them wants to think about what it _means_. But after that, Sherlock can feel John carefully layering comfort and love over him as well, reciprocating, reminding Sherlock of the strength of their link, that they are stronger together than apart. 

Eventually, John falls asleep, though he’s restless with it. Sherlock stays awake as long as he can, vigilant against outside emotional threats, but he eventually gives in and sleeps as well, arms wrapped securely around John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for assault and non-consensual sexualized touch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was supposed to be the final chapter, but then I got to the end of it and went "Huh. Well, shit, I guess this is the end of this chapter. Wasn't expecting that. Dammit."
> 
> So it's four chapters instead of three. Sorry? 
> 
> Good news, though, I've started the fourth chapter already! And I have it basically all planned out. And then that will be the end of this story (but only the beginning of all the shit that's about to go down. Sorry not sorry about that). 
> 
> Not beta'd, because I'm getting over a stomach bug and I need some cheering up, so I'm hoping that people will read this and comment! Yes, I am shamelessly begging for comments on this because I feel like shit and want some cheering up desperately because I'm getting to the point of being desperate to get out of the house but I'm pretty sure I don't have the energy to actually do that, and worse yet, if I try to go get food I'm pretty sure I won't be able to eat any of it for fear it'll make me super nauseated and gross again.
> 
> So. Comments?

John is restless in his sleep that night, barely dipping deep enough to dream at all. Sherlock doesn’t do much better, and they both wake exhausted and bleary the next day.

After breakfast and showers, both of them armor themselves for the day in clothing: a fine suit for Sherlock, crisp and sharp. John arms himself in button down and jeans, in one of his favorite jumpers. There’s comfort in that, in the familiar. 

Thus armed for the day, for whatever may come, John goes about trying for normality. He makes breakfast, though he’s too vaguely ill-feeling and disoriented from the bad night’s sleep to have much appetite. 

Neither of them eats much.

Nothing in particular happens that day. John spends much of it pacing back and forth between his chair, the door, and the window. Sherlock alternates between watching John, attempting to play his violin, and laying on the couch with his hands folded together under his chin and his eyes shut. It probably looks as though he’s in his mind palace, but he isn’t. It might even look as though he’s taking a nap, but he’s definitely not doing that either. Mostly he’s listening to John pace and mutter to himself, and trying to feel comforting, though it seems to have no effect on John.

There is a brief time during which Sherlock exchanges a flurry of texts with someone. John watches with one brow raised, concluding that it must be Mycroft he’s texting from the riot of emotions he feels, dominated by frustration. He almost managing to smile.

“Remember that time you made the pudding explode when he came to dinner?” John asks, when Sherlock appears to be through, having thrown his phone at the end of the couch with a growl.

Sherlock laughs, a single bark of sound, and John chuckles. It had been good. Their time at the cottage in Sussex, all of their time there remains bright in both their minds. Good things happen in Sussex. It is a haven for them both.

By the end of the day, they are both anxious and fidgeting. And exhausted.

“We can’t do this, Sherlock,” John says, his voice heavy.

“Do what?”

“Wait around for him to swoop in and strike.”

Sherlock growls.

“I don’t want to live in fear of Sebastian fucking Moran.”

Sherlock growls again, at the name. His anger is faceless, directionless. It makes both of them want to lash out, though so far they’ve managed not to turn on each other.

“Let’s go out to dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I, Sherlock. Let’s go anyway.”

Sherlock pauses to consider this for a moment. “Alright.”

They go to Angelo’s, another place of comfort to both of them. Nothing much happens; they both eat a light meal and they share a bottle of wine. Angelo is his usual effusive self, refusing to let them pay for the meal, although he lets them compensate him for the wine. He doesn’t seem to notice their low moods, or if he does he concludes that it’s none of his never-you-mind, and they leave feeling a bit lighter than when they’d come.

\----

John sleeps fine that night. Like the dead, even.

If he dreams, he doesn’t remember in the morning.

When he wakes, he’s wrapped up in Sherlock and sweating with the shared body heat, and doesn’t make a move to leave the bed until Sherlock stirs.

\----

The day passes in much the same way as the previous.

\----

John wakes up in the middle of the night with an urgent need for the loo, which is somewhat odd in itself, until he remembers that last cup of tea right before he’d turned in (chamomile, soothing, with the strictly rationed sourwood honey because fuck it he needed it). He rubs his face and shuffles out of bed to the bathroom.

Sherlock’s ring is sat on the sink, next to the soap.

This is not unusual. Neither of them wears their wedding ring all the time. John usually keeps his in his pocket if he’s not wearing it, a talisman. Sherlock wears his slightly more consistently, but he is constantly taking it off for some experiment or other, and very occasionally to cook. He usually ends up putting it next to whatever sink he’s washing his hands in, and then forgets to put it back on later. 

John takes the ring with him when he shuffles back into their bedroom. 

“Sherlock, you forgot your ring again,” he mumbles as he slides into bed. He turns to Sherlock’s side of the bed, to take his hand and slip the band back on it, but Sherlock isn’t there.

Half-asleep, John turns and looks toward the door. No light from beyond shows at the bottom.

_Where’s Sherlock?_

A single bolt of terror lances through him, leaving an ache in his chest. He rubs his face again, telling himself he’s being ridiculous, but he leans over and turns the light on.

The room is different, but subtly so. He can’t quite place it, but he gets up and walks out to the lounge, turning on more lights as he goes. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

It doesn’t feel right in his head. It’s not that Sherlock’s not there. Or perhaps it’s not only that Sherlock’s not there, but also that it feels as though he’d never been there at all. Like a ghost, or an hallucination.

“Sherlock?” John calls again, his voice starting to waver. He turns around in the comfortable lounge of the flat, and starts to see what’s missing. What’s missing is everything of Sherlock. Every trace of him. When he looks in the kitchen, he sees a clean table and clean countertops. No science equipment. No erlenmeyer flasks drying on the dish rack. No petri dishes in the sink. No microscope. No mess of dishes that Sherlock had dumped on the counter and left for John to take care of, because John always takes care of the dishes (mostly because he knows Sherlock simply won’t, and of all the things that annoy him, that’s one of the least significant, so why fight about it?).

There’s no answer. No exasperated call of “What, John?” No sound at all except the distant noise from the main road and the roaring in John’s head. The sound of his heart beating, faster and faster, the sound of his blood pounding through his veins.

John wanders through the room, looking at all the things, all in their proper places. There’s no piles of papers, of notes, of newspapers that haven’t yet been read. None of Sherlock’s strange collections. There’s still clutter, but it is a distinctly John Watson type of clutter. A lone teacup that smells of chamomile and honey ( _Where else would I have got the sourwood honey except from Mycroft?_ he asks himself viciously, even as he carries it mechanically into the kitchen). The books on the shelves are a random mix of novels, mostly murder mysteries and thrillers, medical textbooks, and half-read medical journals.

There’s no skull on the mantel. No knife stuck through the bills. No violin in the corner. No slipper in the grate, where Sherlock thinks John won’t notice his emergency stash of cigarettes. No Belstaff on the hook by the door, no silken dressing gowns thrown over whatever surface was nearby. 

There’s nothing of Sherlock here at all. Nothing of Sherlock anywhere in the flat, except the ring that John is clutching in his hand, holding clenched in his fist like the only link to reality is within the small bit of sentiment.

John sits down abruptly, his legs going out from beneath him without warning, finds himself looking at the room from the floor, craning his neck around to see the corners that he can’t stop searching for Sherlock, for any sign of him. He supposes his legs must have given out, his knees must have decided enough was enough, and he sits and waits as the hours tick past and nothing changes and Sherlock doesn’t come back, because it looks very much like Sherlock had never been there at all.

He doesn’t quite know when he starts to despair, or when he starts to cry. It feels as though despair is all he’s ever known, and he’s surprised that he has tears left to cry after being so utterly without hope for so long. He denies that he’s doing it even as he’s dashing the tears from his cheeks, still clutching Sherlock’s ring like the lifeline it is, praying that this isn’t real, that he hasn’t lost the most important person in his life in the space of a single night, in the space of a few hours when he was asleep and oblivious. 

He sits and he despairs and he waits, for the inevitable. For him. He can feel the presence at the edges of his mind, surrounding him, holding him under, drowning him. He can feel it, but it doesn’t matter, because Sherlock isn’t there, and there’s no point in fighting without Sherlock. There’s no real point in _being_ , not without Sherlock.

All he wants is to take that deep breath of water and let it all fade, quickly and quietly, but he keeps breathing, and his lungs keep filling up with air instead, and the hours tick by and nothing changes.

\----

Sherlock turns over, restless, anxious, and half wakes up. He shifts towards John on the bed and mumbles, “John you’re dreaming, stop it, he’s not here.”

The words are mostly lost in his pillow, and he can’t quite seem to wake himself enough to concentrate on extricating John from the grip of the nightmare. He can’t quite manage to do anything but shift restlessly and sink back into sleep, sink into the well of despair opening in him, in John, between them. 

He doesn’t fight it because he can’t. He can’t see where it starts, and it has crept into his mind the same way it crept into John’s.

Sherlock falls back into sleep, reaching for John and not quite managing to touch him. He reaches for John in his dreams, screams and pleads for John to hear him, to look at him, but John only walks further and further away, crying softly and begging him to come back.

\----

Eventually, both men pass into deeper sleep, where dreams can’t find them, and the nightmares are left behind, though neither of them gets much more restful sleep that night.

\----

John wakes up.

There is light coming in from the window, early morning light. He blinks at it for a while, with no desire to move or speak or do anything other than stay right where he is and breathe, and breathe, and breathe. He wants to remember breathing air, and not the desire to drown that swamps him, that he shouldn’t feel. It seems to come from nowhere, that need to sink beneath the water and never return, but he knows it isn’t him. There is a heavy feeling of dread in his chest, and he knows that he’d dreamt in the night, but he hardly recalls what it was that left such awful feelings in its wake.

Even fighting the feeling of drowning leaves behind an encompassing feeling of dread, creeping through his veins, permeating his ever cell.

John doesn’t want to get up.

Sherlock feels too far away, on the other side of the bed, still asleep apparently. One arm is stretched out towards John, as if he’d tried to find John in his sleep and had failed. It must be earlier than he’d thought, and a brief glance at the alarm clock they rarely use tells him that’s true. 

John shifts and slides across the bed, because he can do that now. He shifts and slides until he can feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body next to him. Something keeps him from reaching out, and he hates that he hesitates. He hates that there’s something there in the dread and the despair still creeping through him, that makes him hesitate before reaching for the comfort of the man next to him in bed. Sherlock has no such hesitation in his sleep, however, turning over with a distinctly relieved sigh and snuggling closer, draping his left arm across John, hand resting on his sternum.

John reaches up and lays his hand over Sherlock’s. He’s not wearing his ring; must’ve taken it off last night sometime to wash his hands and forgot to put it back on.

The dream comes crashing back, the way they sometimes do, and John shuts his eyes against its onslaught, the despair he’d felt, the realness of it, the certainty that Sherlock was gone, had never been at all.

Sherlock lifts his head, blinking blearily at him. “John?”

John sighs a little, shakes his head. “It’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock tugs on him until he shifts closer, tucks his head down, and drifts back off.

John drifts with him, taking comfort in the peaceful sleeping presence of Sherlock. Taking comfort in his existence.

After a while, he gets up to use the bathroom. Sherlock’s ring is there on the sink, and he stands in the bathroom, the tiles cold against the soles of his feet, for a long time, just staring at it, remembering his dream vividly, reliving all of it. 

Eventually, or possibly a couple minutes later, he picks up the ring and returns to bed with it in his hand. Sherlock turns to him with a sleepy, questioning grumble, and John picks up his left hand and slips the ring back onto his finger.

“Forgot to put it back on,” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow. “Thanks.”

“Sherlock?”

He makes a noise in his throat that John takes to mean yes.

“Keep it on for a while, all right?”

Sherlock makes another affirmative noise, and John breathes a sigh of relief. 

\----

Later, that same feeling is still with him, despair and loneliness, hard to shake even with the comforting reassurance of Sherlock in his arms. They reach for each other, reach for skin and lips, reach for sighs and pleasure, once Sherlock has fully woken up. At this point, John’s been awake for hours. They reach for the wordless comfort of two bodies meeting, sliding against one another, friction and its promises, reaffirming their togetherness, their collective strength. The thing about them that Moran will never understand. His efforts to make John feel like Sherlock is gone only bring them closer together, even with the cloud of despair and sadness he’s left floating over them, and they spend a while reaffirming that promise to each other.

They sink into each other until all they feel is their hearts beating together, all they hear is the faint buzzing of bees and the soft sounds of breeze ruffling through a wheat field. Until they are twined together, neither sure where one person ends and the next begins. All they see are blue eyes, light and dark, and all they need is to be with each other, entwined, braided together body and mind. 

Eventually, they let the day intrude, letting go physically to go about their morning routines, having banished that creeping despair finally, both wearing soft, satisfied smiles that no one else ever gets to see. They release each other physically, taking hands off, separating in the bed and getting up, but they do not let go of each other mentally.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus doth this story end. Or at least finish. For now.
> 
> This hasn't been beta'd. I'd apologize, but... eh.

John showers and eats breakfast. He refuses to let these dreams that Moran keeps invading (John has no doubt that his own brain is at least starting the nightmare process, it’s something his brain has always excelled at) keep him from at least pretending to normality.

He knows that something has changed, with Moran. Something is different, and he’s coming after John again, after both of them. John plans on being as prepared as possible for that push when it happens. He doesn’t know what it will be, or when it will come, but he knows that Moran will underestimate them just like the last time, and he has every intention of using that to his advantage. He will underestimate them, because he will take them on as individuals, not as a pair. Because he will discount Sherlock for not having any peculiar abilities of his own (which is a laugh, even if they aren’t psychic Sherlock certainly has many peculiar abilities). Because he can’t see the whole picture.

Moran may be able to creep into his mind, change his emotions, but John has Sherlock Holmes on his side, so really? Moran is barely even a worry. He’ll keep telling himself that until he believes it.

And the nightmares really suck. He could do without those.

After he’s gone through his morning routine, shower and tea and breakfast and the paper while sat across from Sherlock at the partners desk in the lounge, John goes back into their room to put his shoes on. He sits down on the bed, and decides to lay down, just for a minute.

John shuts his eyes, and falls straight into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

He wakes up later, blearily notes the change in the light coming from the window. Stretching, groggy, he looks at the alarm clock again and sees that he’s been asleep for three hours. 

He sits on the bed for a moment, rubbing his hands over his face, and then puts on his shoes, and goes back out into the lounge, through the kitchen, where he stops to put the kettle on. Might as well have a cup of tea while they decide how to go about the day.

Mycroft is there. He is stood in the middle of their lounge, umbrella and coat in one arm, a file folder in the other.

Sherlock looks as though he’s about to murder his brother.

“Shit,” John says. He turns around and goes back into the kitchen. He can hear Mycroft and Sherlock speaking to each other in low, angry voices while he makes himself a cup and tea and stands over the sink drinking it. Slowly. He lets them get on with their argument. It must be a doozy if they can’t have it silently. So much of their communication is silent, though it’s nothing to do with being psychic. It’s all the strange, antagonistic closeness of their relationship, and their big brains. 

Finally, John goes back into the lounge. Slowly. Warily. 

He knows what’s coming. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been pretty sure that this was coming since he started having those horrible nightmares courtesy of Moran again.

Moran is out. 

“It has come to my attention,” Mycroft begins, announcing it to the room and not quite actually managing to look at John, as though this is any normal case of life or death proportions, and not a case involving a deranged psychotic psychic, “that Sebastian Moran has escaped his confines at Baskerville. We suspect that he had inside help in achieving this goal.”

Mycroft looks pointedly at John, finally, holding out the folder. Expecting John to take it. As if John will ever want to take something Mycroft hands him, after that time with Moriarty and the box of ashes. No, ta very much.

John crosses his arms and refuses to take it. He manages to suppress the snort that wants to escape his lips, but only barely. Figures that Moran was taken to Baskerville, kept at Baskerville. It makes perfect sense, and John hates it. He very much does not want to deal with this right now. He wants to go back to bed, with Sherlock, and go back to ignoring the world outside of themselves for a while.

Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs, but acquiesces. He turns on his heel and thrusts the folder towards his brother, who also crosses his arms and refuses to take it. Sherlock doesn’t bother suppressing his snort of derision, though.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Mycroft huffs. “This concerns both of you.” He slaps the folder down on the coffee table. “Moran has escaped, and he will probably make some attempt on your lives. He is rather obsessed with you in particular, John. It’s rather disturbing to read.”

“Yeah well, it’s far worse to live, Mycroft,” John retorts. He stomps across the room and sits on the sofa. As far away from Mycroft and his imperiousness and his devastating news as possible.

He refuses to react when Mycroft rolls his eyes and turns back to his brother again. But if he’s expecting rationality and responsiveness from Sherlock, it doesn’t appear that he’s going to get it, because Sherlock just glares at him. Mycroft glares back, and they descend into one of their silent squabbles again. Mycroft obviously wants them to go to Baskerville, to investigate Moran’s escape, to find him and return him to captivity so Mycroft and his minions can glean every last minute detail of his abilities from him. 

Sherlock clearly doesn’t agree with the viability of that plan.

“Stapleton,” John says, suddenly, interrupting their glaring match.

Both brothers look at him sharply, argument momentarily forgotten. 

John shrugs. “If anyone at that place decided to help Moran, it would have been Stapleton. He would have fascinated her.”

“And she is probably a sociopath,” Sherlock mutters.

“You would know,” Mycroft snipes at him.

Sherlock merely raises his eyebrows in return. There was a time when he would have risen to the bait in some way or another, but now he doesn’t. He lets it go, and John feels a sharp rush of affection for him. Time was, he’d rigged a pudding to explode when Mycroft came to dinner, for the sheer glee of it. Now he brushes his brother’s jabs off, crosses the room and sits beside John.

“You can leave the file, Mycroft. We’ll look at it, or we won’t. I’ll text you later.”

Mycroft sighs, nods once. He recognizes when Sherlock is being utterly intractable, when it’s useless to argue further with either of them, and that there’s no point in trying to divide him and John. They are far stronger together than separate, anyway. He straightens his already impeccably straight waistcoat, and takes his leave without another word.

Sherlock and John sit beside each other in silence for a long time.

\----

Mycroft’s visit puts something of a damper on the day. 

To say the least.

They don’t discuss it, what Mycroft’s visit had meant, what might be found in the file that still sits on the coffee table, ignored by both of them. John wanders from room to room, drinking endless cups of tea.

Eventually he finds himself stood by the window in the lounge, staring out at the dying light of day, watching idly as people hurry past, into Speedy’s, or off to who knows where else. He envies them, a bit, their simple lives.

His life has never been simple. And it looks like it’s going to become harder again, and quick.

They’ll have to go to Baskerville. 

Both of them know it. It’s what they’ve been avoiding saying to each other all afternoon. They’ll have to go to the base, and find out as much as they can about Moran’s stay there and how he escaped. And then they’ll have to find Moran.

John is pretty sure they’ll have to kill him, this time. He doesn’t like the idea of it, killing another person, another empath, someone like him. But he doesn’t shy from the idea, from the necessity of it. They won’t be safe until Moran is gone.

He alternates between anger, that they have to deal with this again, and fear of what’s to come. None of it is going to feel good, is going to _be_ good. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He just wants peace, and it makes him angry that Moran will force this on them.

\----

Sherlock watches John standing at the window, staring out at nothing in particular. John’s emotional state wobbles back and forth between fear and anger, though outwardly he is expressionless and remote.

Sherlock hates it. He hates that there’s really nothing he can do about this right now. At least they both know they’re stronger together.

They’ll deal.

But for now, there’s not much to be done, so he gets out his violin, and he plays while John stays in the window. He plays, and plays, plays John’s anger and his fear out in dips and swirls, in every note he pulls from the strings. 

He continues to play until John finally settles. He settles on determination, on conviction that they two of them will be together, will be strong against Sebastian Moran. That’s when he finally stops. He puts his violin away and looks to John.

“John.”

“Hmm?” John replies. Slowly, he turns to look at Sherlock.

“Let’s go to bed.”

John nods, smiles a little at him. He crosses the room to Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock slips his hand into John’s, and they go down the hall to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come: a brief interlude with Molly, I think, and then a super fun trip to the countryside and Baskerville! Good times, good times.


End file.
